Eternal Solitude
by Miss Malfaisant
Summary: Christine has left Erik to die; slowly, painfully, and alone. A post-Leroux Eristine one-shot. Drabblesque; an array of spewed and non cohesive thoughts. Rated for tragic themes and language.


**Eternal Solitude**  
Written by Miss Malfaisant

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. He would, however, make an excellent present.

**Setting:** Set a few weeks after the finale of the musical.

* * *

_Let it be heard._

A music so distorted that the Opera House itself, twisted and tortured in its figure, was the chorus to the haunted melody that was only silence.

If one only dared to listen to the mournful song of death accompanied by that which was the wind carrying whispers of life from the outside world, they would hear the song of the Ghost himself.

Down; down into the dark catacombs of the Opera Garnier. Time had passed without a glance upon the forgotten chamber. Light had not settled upon the basement in many years, leaving dark shadows to pace on shredded tapestries…

A porcelain mask lay on the ground—shattered—like the dreams of a broken man. Three mirrors now cloaked in black; also shattered. Cobwebs laced around each trinket, and a fine layer of dust coated the entire chamber. There was an organ; with ivories that were once tickled so finely, but were now broken and yellowed. Sheets upon sheets of music were simply strewn about, black, spidery handwriting scrawled over each one. A music box of Persian decent as well. A monkey was perched on top of the old box, hands with miniature cymbals frozen in mid-clap.

All of these things had once been precious memoirs of a dark soul. One name came to mind when exploring caverns, such as these. One name with such a haunting presence, it seemed unreal, and the opera whispered his name in its mournful song of a time now forgotten.

Erik; The Opera Ghost. A forsaken calling, etched forever in the hearts of countless victims. This name that brought cold, clammy skin and caused blood to freeze. Fear induced bile would rise in one's throat. This man was a murderer, yet he breathed life into the dullest, most lackluster music. He was evil, but his voice was like that of an angel! Such a contrast in one being seemed… improbable. Many denied his existence, but this man, for a fact, was very real.

This slender figure slouched in a far corner of the room. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, but laboriously. His hair was matted and his simple apparel of black felt and a thin shirt was marred with rips and patches of filmy web. Slowly, the figure raised his head, revealing his face. A face that held such sadness, such withheld remorse, that it was hardly bearable to the mere human eye. His own eyes, which were a sickeningly yellow-green, had dark, bruise like shadows around them. The right side of his face was pinched and blistered, and a gruesome black hole sat where a nose should have been. Ghastly was the sight of him, so inhuman, yet still so human within.

No, not even human; not even a man. Erik, not a man, though all of a man's desires he had once felt. He was not a human, having severed the emotions that named him thus, leaving only their blood running through his veins as a lasting tribute to the ancient race. They had dwelt above, dead to him in their light; there had been nothing through the Ghost's long years of solitude to say otherwise. Rarely did a person stray deep into the ruins. Those who valued their life skirted its rim. It was not he, not Erik though who lured those to their death who wandered in from the cold. The world was harsh, all died in their own time. No, Erik had not seen another human in a long time, he kept out of their business, and they his. It was the building, the building that crushed their frail bodies or allowed them to fall onto the sharp shards that lay beneath. He lived in the bowls, the very darkest pits of the opera. In a ruined corner, torn and shredded.

His lips quivered as he raised a clenched fist to the horrible thing he called his face. Opening his hand, he dropped a small, ornate object to the floor. A beautiful ring. An engagement ring that never found a permanent owner. A deep, shuddering breath coursed through the pitiful man. How grand he had once been. He had such an air of power and control. Now, he was reduced to a tear-ridden shrew of a man. His muse had left him, and he hadn't sung a tune in what seemed like ages. There was little left. A soft heart, and perhaps regret had laid siege upon him after he allowed her to leave. He had tried to forget what he had done. He drank; tried a few things that he'd not done for years.

Regretted them all.

But they helped him forget.

His life seemed like an accident. Everything had gone so… horribly wrong. There were so many deaths, so many unwanted mishaps. Too many mistakes. Things that seemed to undeniably right at the moment, which turned out to be so incredibly wrong. The man moaned; and withered into a trembling heap as he remembered the best mistake he'd ever made; tutoring Christine Daaé. Such innocence! Oh such innocence, should be his, and his alone. Why did he release her? A living bride! And now she was gone. Dead to him in his heart as she had been when her pitiful kiss had rocked him to the core and he had relented, yielded, weakened. He remembered her hypnotic eyes, her full lips. Those lips against his had seemed right. Those forbidden lips…

A strangled cry escaped the man's throat. How he yearned for that sweet happiness! And now his opportunity had vanished. In his rare, waking moments, he had nothing.

Except a violin.

A violin, that being all, but in his dreams he had everything. In his dreams he had her. But this violin. Erik had found it, couldn't quite remember where. A long time ago, on the odd occasion when he had gone up to the Opera House. He did not belong there. But the ghost had returned every night to the Opera House, looking for her, waiting. After a while, when she did not turn up, he stopped going. Giving into the idea all together, of this violin. A little ruined, the strings were broken, as was the bow, but the man had fixed it; he was very good at fixing things. Long fingers working quickly and quietly in their simple task. When it was fixed, he played it. Spent days playing it. The strange music that would weave through his mind, silently wove its way to the violin playing for an invisible audience. Erik did this now. Played. Erik always played music, it was the only thing he could remember doing, the only thing he ever did.

_Erik was music._

* * *

Please review. It would make me very happy.


End file.
